


Aligned Goals

by Altenprano



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: A bit au from the current arc but consistent with canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-06-21 05:24:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15550581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altenprano/pseuds/Altenprano
Summary: “I’m not after animals,” she says. Very rarely does she hunt beasts. Rather, she tends to pursue poachers, who hunt beasts for sport and for gold, and with little to no regard for the creature itself. She considers, for a moment, lying, but something tells her that she can speak the truth here, and she remembers the flame curling around the man’s hand—long gone by now—and knows perhaps the truth is better. “I’m hunting the Iron Shepards."-Neva's made it to the town of Shady Creek Run, in search of children stolen by the Iron Shepards. While there, she encounters a motley crew known as the Mighty Nein who are also in search of friends stolen by the Shepards, and with a similar goal, it only makes sense that they join forces to take down the slavers and rescue their friends.





	1. Chapter 1

She hates this town.

As Neva makes her way through the streets of Shady Creek Run, she is careful not to draw attention to herself by peering too keenly at passersby, but her ears remain alert, and she listens for a sound—a name—that might lead her in the right direction. She hears the sound of footsteps, of merchants hawking wares, urchins chattering amongst themselves in their own tongue, and the noises of beasts as well, horses and donkeys, mostly, but here and there a barely-domesticated dog or alley cat breaks through the braying and stomping. There is the scent of squalor, of shit and sweat, and the cheap perfume of a brothel as she passes by, her attention catching on a red-haired half-elf as he shakes dust out of an ornate rug.  He winks, eyes a flash of green like summer foliage that doesn’t seem to belong here, and then he disappears inside, rug over his shoulder and lips pursed in a whistle.

He seems to be the only bright presence in this town, and she wonders how he does it, but moves on. She has work to do here, and the sooner she does it, the sooner she will be at peace.

 _I’ll find you, and whoever’s hurt you, they’ll answer to me_.

She has very little to go on, having chased rumors of a band of slavers north, to this sad, horrible town, and without tracks to follow, she has to make do with that much. She at least has a name, and she knows she’s no hero, just a girl with good aim and enough guts to come this far north at the onset of winter. To come north chasing slavers is insanity enough, she knows that, but Masha wouldn’t let her leave it alone, and so there she is, in the gods-forsaken town of Shady Creek Run.

Neva has half the mind to turn towards the woods, and make her camp there, though she knows her mission will be better served if she finds herself a room in a tavern—for tonight at least—and listens. It is no different than hunting, in that she must lie in wait for signs of her quarry, though she knows this is a hunt she cannot afford to let drag on, or else the gods alone know what will happen to the children she’s come to find.

Finding lost children is not an unusual job for her. Many times, children have wandered into the wood she patrols and found themselves lost, and many times, she and Masha have found them, calmed them down, and taken them back to their mothers. This time, though, the woods are unfamiliar, and something is hurting them (she’s no druid, but she knows sickness when she sees it), and there’s barely any scent to follow, only a name and some wagon tracks.

She finds a spot in a tavern—she doesn’t care to remember the name, it’s something to do with the word _drench_ , she thinks, or _wench,_ she isn’t really sure—and, with what coin she knows she can spare, buys herself a bowl of stew and a glass of cheap whiskey. If she’s in a town, she might as well take advantage of a hot meal, and the whiskey too, which drives back the chill of early winter and gives her a quiet boldness that she knows she doesn’t inherently have.

She’s just about finished with the stew when she notices a man pass close to her table.

He’s bald, with tattoos she cannot identify, thick brows and cold eyes. He opens his mouth to bark at one of the tavern’s two serving boys (a half-elf with a lazy eye and a bit of a limp, who had brought Neva her stew earlier), and Neva catches a glint of gold in his mouth as he speaks, and her hackles rise.

Eyes still on the man, she reaches for what magic she knows, grasps a tendril, and directs it towards the man. Her Hunter’s Mark in place, she forces herself to settle, and finishes her stew, waiting for him to leave. He fits the description one of the villagers gave her—the tattoos and flash of gold teeth confirm it—and Neva is sure if she follows him, she will find the Iron Shepherds, and once she finds the Shepherds, she’ll find the children.

He doesn’t stay long, and she only stays a minute after, drawing her cloak tight against the cold and pulling a few strands of her dark hair lose to hide any features that might give her away.

Half-elves are common enough in this town, it seems, but it comes as an afterthought once she’s out the door, a habit picked up on the journey north. Still, she is cautious. If she can identify her quarry by tattoos and a golden tooth, the gods alone know what someone can do with blue eyes and arrows fletched with crows’ feathers, and she would rather finish this hunt without any complications.

She trails the tattooed man to the edge of town, following the tug of her Hunter’s Mark, but making sure she keeps a safe distance. She lets him get ahead of her, until he is out of sight, and she lets out a low rumble in the back of her throat, letting the noise ring out through the still wood.

This wood…something is wrong with it. It’s sick—Neva can see that in the way the leaves wither, feels it in the still silence that fills the air. As close to winter as it is, there should be birdsong, at least the faint chittering of treecreepers, but she hears none of that. She hears the steps of the gold-toothed man, steady and deliberate ahead of her, and in the periphery, the heavy plodding of a large beast.

She tenses, and her hand twitches towards her quiver, then falls to her side. She holds still, listening to the approaching footsteps, and grinning as she sees a familiar shape enter her view.

“There you are,” she says, reaching to rub Masha between her ears as her companion draws near.

The large bear lets out a soft grunt and pushes her head against Neva’s side in greeting, ears twitching.

“I know, I know- but let’s get moving. I’ve found the man those mothers told us about, and I don’t want to lose him now,” Neva says, already beginning to follow the tug of her spell, though she slows her pace, allowing Masha to catch up.

It isn’t difficult, though it takes some coaxing—Neva knows Masha can move quickly, but winter is drawing nearer, and the natural order calls for Masha to slow. They cannot afford to be slow now, not when the spell could slip through Neva’s fingers any moment, or her quarry could wander out of range. They’ll follow as far as they dare, until they find the slavers’ headquarters, and make their plan from there.

As they move through the forest, Masha sniffs the air, and Neva wonders what she’s found. The bear tosses her head and pushes ahead, and now it’s Neva’s turn to pick up the pace, though not before a hiss of caution to her companion.

She knows enough of slavers and poachers to know the opportunity they see in a large beast such as Masha. Slavers see a creature to be beaten to submission and sold to some traveling show, while poachers undoubtedly see a creature to kill and skin—Neva cannot decide which is worse—and Neva won’t let either fate befall her companion.

Masha slows her pace, and grunts again, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Neva is still following.

“I’m right behind you,” Neva assures the bear, aware that her Hunter’s Mark feels stretched taut, angling away from the direction Masha is leading her. “He’s gone the other way, though.”

If Masha hears her, she shows no sign of it as she shoulders aside clusters of branches to create a trail for Neva to follow. She’s a stubborn one, and whether it’s following a scent or agreeing to rescue stolen children, Neva knows enough to trust Masha, and follow where the bear leads.

As she follows Masha, Neva hears the sounds of voices—accents she doesn’t recognize—and several sets of footsteps, offset by the sound of plate armor, and she knows it’s only a matter of a few feet before her path crosses with whoever it is Masha’s found. With a quiet sigh of defeat, she drops her concentration on Hunter’s Mark, lip curling in a quiet snarl and the loss of her prey.

_So close. So close, and you lost him._

It’s no use, agonizing over lost prey. She’s seen him now, knows what he looks like, and knows he keeps his captives somewhere in this wood, and for now, that is enough.

Ahead, Masha has stopped, and is pawing at the ground, searching for berries or something else edible.

“Here you are, silly,” Neva chides, forgetting for a moment the gravity of her mission as she tosses Masha a few pieces of salted trout she bought before they arrived in no-man’s land. “I can’t believe you—”

She’s cut off as a crossbow bolt whizzes past, and she can hear it split the air, and she barely blinks before it hits Masha. Masha lets out a pained roar, and flattens her ears against her head. What remains of the trout is forgotten as she tries to shake the bolt free, her teeth clacking together in agitation.

Neva knows better than to approach Masha, but she does her best to calm her as she draws her bow and nocks an arrow, ready to return fire. She takes a step forward, bow still drawn, and another crossbow bolt sails past, missing both her and Masha completely. As the bolt flies past, she releases her arrow into the brush. She listens for the telltale sounds of impact, the cry as the bodkin point penetrates chain and pierces skin beneath, but she hears nothing. All she hears is a woman’s voice swear, and then she sees a flash of rich blue fabric through the brush, too fluid to be a bird or any creature she's familiar with.

Masha lets out a distressed growl and charges; Neva follows, calling upon a reserve of magic to give her a burst of speed that allows her to keep pace with the bear.

As she nears the brush , she sees now that there are several figures—the voices she heard earlier, perhaps. A human woman with dark skin and blue eyes that flash dangerously at Masha’s approach leaps towards the charging bear, staff raised to strike. At her heels, is a dwarven woman with a battle-axe, whose armor is rusted, to the point it almost blends it with the dull earthen tones of the forest, followed by a small, halfling-sized figure whose features she cannot discern. She can see that further back stands a human man in a worn coat, fire curling around his hand like a tame creature, and a step behind, a tall, humanoid creature she does not recognize, with vaguely cervine features, and some kind of amulet around their neck.

The dark-skinned woman goes to strike Masha with her staff, and the bear swats it away—a warning. She makes another strike, and catches Masha across the nose, eliciting a low moan from the bear, though Neva can see she’s just as angry as she is hurt.

It’s been a while since they’ve gotten in a skirmish like this, since Masha usually is enough to drive off bandits or gnolls. They’re outnumbered, and Neva’s attention is torn between her companion’s injury and their attackers. She can only do one thing at a time—she can’t attack and soothe Masha both, she has to choose.

As she hesitates, she sees the glint of a blade as the battle-axe swings towards Masha—Masha, whose rage is only out of fear and pain, Masha, her companion, her friend, her _sister_ —and she knows what course of action to take.

In a split second, Neva gives herself another push of magic, slipping past the dark skinned woman as she puts herself between the dwarf’s axe and her bear. “Stand down,” she demands, her voice a low growl as she nocks another arrow and points it at the dwarf woman.

She knows it’s no good to shoot at this range, but she hopes the dwarf won’t be able to call her bluff. And if the dwarf does, and moves against Masha, Neva knows she will drive an arrow into her neck with what strength she has, without hesitation.

“Why don’t _you_ stand down?” The human woman takes a step closer, staff held at the ready. “Your bear attacked us-- not cool, man.”

Masha takes a shuffling step backwards and clacks her teeth, and Neva takes a step backwards as well, if only to keep herself between Masha and anyone who would wish her harm.

“My bear” – it doesn’t feel right, to refer to Masha as her bear, but Neva ignores it for now, focuses her attention on the two women before her, then the halfling figure as they dart by in the corner of her vision— “was shot by one of you. She’s well within her rights to—”

“Listen, lady, ” the dwarf says, shouldering her axe, and she takes a step forward. “If you’re going to get so worked up about us hurting your damn bear, maybe you shouldn’t let her loose.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t shoot a creature who hasn’t done you any harm.” Neva adjusts her grip on her arrow. “Masha was just looking for food, and you shot her. Would you like it if I shot you when you went to look for something to eat?”

“No,” answers a shrill female voice that seems to come from the halfling figure, who, Neva notices, is holding a small crossbow, perhaps built for use by a gnome. “Sorry.”

“Wait, the bear has a name?” The dwarf woman furrowed her brow. “Is she like, your pet or something?”

“She’s my friend.” It is the simplest way Neva can think to explain it, though she’s known Masha since she was a cub of only a year or so, and Neva stumbled upon her mother’s den one wintery evening, and “friend,” perhaps is not the right word. “And yes, her name is Masha, at least that’s what I call her, and she’s never objected.”

“Oh-kay.” The dwarf woman glances at the arrow that Neva has pointed at her. “Would you mind not pointing that at me, bear lady? We’ll leave you alone, just...just put that away. Please.”

Silence passes between them. Behind Neva, Masha makes a soft huffing sound, and presses her nose against Neva’s back. Neva and the other party stand in silence, studying each other.

Another moment passes, and Neva lowers her bow. She watches as the other two figures draw nearer, the human man a few steps behind the other, which Neva realizes is a firbolg as she steps into easier view, and the small halfling figure puts herself in better view as well. Out of curiosity, Neva lets her attention dart to the small figure, and she sees the yellow eyes and strange teeth of a goblin.

“Are you lost?” she asks them-- a question asked out of habit. She may not know these woods, but she knows (or is sure she knows) the dangers that lurk in the woods for those unprepared, and-- circumstances aside-- she should perhaps offer help.

“We are not lost,” says the firbolg woman, her voice soft, but not without an undercurrent of confidence to it, something Neva isn’t sure she expects to hear. “Are you and your friend lost?”

“No.” Neva shakes her head, and a few strands of dark hair fall into her face—she lets them stay. She glances at the human man and notices the owl that perches on his shoulder, its feathers almost the same color as his coat, wondering for a moment if he is, as she and Masha are, bonded beyond explanation. “We’re hunting.”

“And what is it you are hunting?” the man asks, and Neva can feel him studying her, and she stands a little straighter, rather than shrink under his gaze. “There are not many animals here, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not after animals,” she says. Very rarely does she hunt beasts. Rather, she tends to pursue poachers, who hunt beasts for sport and for gold, and with little to no regard for the creature itself. She considers, for a moment, lying, but something tells her that she can speak the truth here, and she remembers the flame curling around the man’s hand—long gone by now—and knows perhaps the truth is better. “I’m hunting the Iron Shepards.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Neva names her quarry, and watches as the group seems to shift.

The dwarf woman tightens her grip on her axe, jaw clenched, while the human woman’s eyes flash like steel—cold and hard. The man with the flame presses his lips in a grim line, a shadow descending upon his features, and the goblin girl’s expression hardens as well. Even the firbolg woman bristles, but there is something else in her expression alongside a fury that Neva has seen only twice before.

“Did they take someone from you?” the firbolg woman asks, breaking the silence.

Neva shakes her head. “Not from me,” she says, “but one of the villages Masha and I were passing through, the Iron Shepherds stole some children, and I’m going to find them.”

The human woman looks as if she’s about to laugh, and then her expression hardens. “Is it just you and the bear, or are there more of you? Because I wouldn’t go after them if it’s just the two of you.”

“And why not?”

“Because the Iron Shepherds’ll make quick work of you, lady.” The dwarf lowers her battle axe, but doesn’t release it.

“Neva,” Neva says, not really thinking when she does, but part of her would rather be referred to by her name than by simply “lady.”

“And I’m Keg—like powder, or booze.” Keg sighs. “Point is, you don’t want to tangle with those fuckers, not on your own. If you got the coin, I suggest going into town and hiring some folks to help you, because you and your bear won’t be enough.”

“And how would you know?”

Behind Neva, Masha gives a snort, and butts her head against Neva. She lets out a low whine—the bolt is still in her side, Neva remembers, and her stomach twists at the thought of Masha’s pain being prolonged like this—and shuffles in place, as if to remind Neva that she is still hurt.

“Because those assholes killed our friend,” the human woman says. “And that was with all of us fighting, so yeah, if you think you and your bear can just walk into their stronghold, get those kids, and walk out, I’ll save you the trouble of finding out the hard way.”

“Usually people who would shoot a bear don’t offer advice after,” Neva says, reaching a hand back to pet Masha, to assure the bear that everything is alright. Neva knows she’ll have to pull the bolt out, before it can do any damage, and she knows Masha won’t enjoy it. “Did the Shepherds take someone from you? Or are you just out for revenge?”

“They took my son, and my mate,” the firbolg woman says, making her way to the front of the group, and Neva realizes just how tall this woman is.

“And they took our friends,” the goblin adds, adjusting her grip on the crossbow, lowering it slightly. “I’m sorry I hurt your friend.”

She shrugs. “She’s had worse.”

Neva doesn’t spare the goblin girl a glance as she makes her way around to Masha’s side, pulling off her gloves and tucking them in her belt as she does. The quarrel isn’t hard to find, sticking out of Masha’s shoulder like a tree on a bare peak, and when she goes to touch it, she feels Masha stiffen.

“Easy,” she says, her voice firm, but not without some warmth as she smooths the fur along Masha’s side in an attempt to calm her friend. As easy as she knows this is going to be, the thought of Masha being in any sort of pain causes Neva’s stomach to twist. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the firbolg woman bent at eye level with Masha, lips moving as she gently strokes Masha’s nose, and Neva feels Masha relax. “Easy now.”

Grasping the quarrel by the shaft, Neva pulls, and as the projectile is pulled free, Masha lets out a distressed cry and shifts away from Neva.

“I know, I know,” Neva mutters, covering the open wound with both hands and forcing her magic to close the wound. She runs her hand along Masha’s back, ignoring the five pairs of eyes that seem trained on her while she settles her bear. Once Masha shifts away from her, Neva stops, and lets her attention return to the group before her. “If what you’re saying about the Iron Shepherds is true, and if you’re going after them as well, maybe we can work together.”

The human woman fixes Neva with a sharp look. “What sort of thing can you do, that would make it worthwhile?” she asks, and she holds up an arrow with familiar fletching. “You’re a good shot, I’ll give you that, but so’s Nott here. And you’ve got the bear, but I’m sure Nila could do that if she wanted to. What else’ve you got, then?”

“I have magic, but so does your friend, and I’ve only got a little.” She nods towards the human man, who has long since dismissed the serpentine flame and now watches her almost as intently as the falcon on his shoulder. “But I’m very good at tracking people, and I’ve yet to get lost, not to mention I’d be an extra ally in any fight that happens, and I don’t think you can argue with that.”

“You are right,” says the man with the falcon. “Beauregard, what do you think?”

The human woman shrugs. “Sure,” she says, shouldering her staff. “Do you know what we’re looking for?”

Neva nods, and there’s a sting of disappointment as she is reminded that she has lost track of her quarry. “A human man, bald, tattoos, and gold teeth,” she says, repeating the description she was given prior to setting off.

“That’s Lorenzo alright,” Keg mutters, shaking her head. The dwarf woman shoulders her axe and glances at the rest of the group. “He’ll be headed to his stronghold, which is somewhere through the wood.”

“Alright, then that’s where we’ll head.” Neva turns to go, to take point and lead the way. After all, she’s an experienced tracker, and with the sun setting, they’ll want to cover as much ground as possible before they’re forced to make camp. “Come on Masha.”

The bear grunts, and butts her head against the firbolg—Nila—letting out a sound almost halfway between chattering teeth and a bearish warble.

“You are too sweet,” Nila says, grinning, as if she recognizes the sound, and perhaps she does. Neva doesn’t know much about firbolgs, but she remembers her mother’s stories that they speak the tongue of animals.

“Come on Masha,” Neva says again, glancing over her shoulder to make sure her friend is following this time, and when the bear catches up with her, Neva gives her a gentle pat on the side. “You’re the one who wanted to find those kids in the first place, so let’s go.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! 
> 
> Please let me know what you thought in the comments below. 
> 
> I can be found on tumblr as spicybeauritos


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